9. Chapter 9
Chapter 9
W hen Cemre opened her eyes on Sunday, the third day of the competition, she felt oddly calm. Or perhaps stuck in a dream was more accurate. So much had happened the day before that nothing felt quite real anymore. She blinked up at the wood ceiling of her bunk. Her limbs didn’t want to move; her mind didn’t want to switch on.
The creaks and thumps of her roommates getting up and ready finally sparked a flare of anxiety in her stomach, which spread out to her chest and arms and made her sit up. Gingerly, she patted the tender skin above her lips. The moustache glue and remover was causing a bit of a rash, but she could only wear ointment at night, or the glue wouldn’t stick. She just had to grin and bear it. She smiled at her own pun.
She’d bathed the night before, but her nostrils had remained full of the scent of fish guts even after washing and putting on fresh clothes. Fortunately, the pungent skin cream directly below her nose helped dispel the impression, and she was finally able to fall asleep.
Now she carefully wiped away any remnants of cream and applied her moustache, wincing as the glue burned the raw patches. Moving slower than a reluctant ent, she pulled on her uniform, tucked her hair into her hat, and gave a long, deep sigh. Maybe if she kept her mind in this dreamlike haze, she could focus on cooking alone and not any of the other things that threatened to take over.
Like her family . . .
Or Massimo knowing the truth . . .
Or—
No. She wouldn’t do it.
She was going to think about food and nothing else. The only thing that mattered was winning this competition. She had to fight like the other chefs, not let them intimidate her. She’d learn their fancy techniques and practice them and be better than the lot of them. She would not end up in round two again.
Her disguise in place, she pulled open the curtains and greeted her bleary-eyed roommates, all dressed and ready except Massimo. He was half-dressed, apparently having bathed already but not finished putting on his uniform. Bare-chested, he bent over his bag, rifling through it, but on hearing Cemre, he popped upright and sent her a wing-tingling smile, one that seemed relieved at having admitted to knowing her secret.
“Good morning,” he said pleasantly. He glanced down at himself and cleared his throat, quickly pulling on his undervest. “I am up early today so I can make the coffee. I make for everyone. Who want it?”
“Not for me, butt,” said Rhydian. “I’m a tea person myself.”
Tsytryn grunted and left the room, which could have meant he wanted coffee or the lavatory or simply to get to the makeup room ahead of the crowd.
“I would like some,” said Qhari. “The coffee they have backstage is too much weak.”
“I make espresso,” said Massimo. “Much better.” He glanced at Cemre, sending her a surreptitious wink. “You want also? I will make it very nice for you.”
Cemre had to swallow and cough to prevent her voice coming out as a squeak. Finally she managed to rasp, “Yes, please.”
They made their way to the practice kitchen. Tsytryn had arrived ahead of them and was . . . pouring the brine from a pickle jar into a small glass. He tossed the glass back, swallowed, and let out a breathy Aaaah .
“Refreshing.” He smacked his lips, but due to their solid nature, the sound was a clunk rather than a pop . “Good for energy.”
“Better you than me, butt,” said Rhydian as he put a kettle on for tea while Qhari and Cemre gathered at another stove to watch Massimo prepare his favourite drink.
Dark-roasted beans were ground in one of the kitchen’s fancy appliances, then tipped into a silver, funnel-like object. Massimo tamped down the grounds, then placed the funnel into a metal cup he’d half-filled with water. Something like a miniature metal teapot was screwed onto the cup, and the whole contraption was placed on the stove.
Massimo tapped his ear. “Now we listen.” He warmed some milk as they waited. “I don’t usually have it, but maybe you will need it.”
Qhari leaned his elbows on the bench. “I wonder if we will all stay out of round two today.”
“Don’t be pulling wasps’ nests onto your head, butt. Plenty of time for worrying when we’re treading the boards later.” Rhydian took a sip of his freshly brewed tea. “Ah, there’s lovely.”
The espresso pot began hissing and bubbling, and Massimo carefully lifted it off the stove with an oven mitt. He poured the black liquid into what appeared to be miniature teacups. He held one out to Cemre. “Try it like this first.”
She sniffed the steam rising from the cup, enjoying the rich nutty scent, then blew on it before risking a taste.
With great difficulty, she managed to refrain from spitting it out. She couldn’t hide the disgust on her face, though.
Massimo laughed, his hand on his belly. “Is bitter, yes? Here.” He tipped some warm milk into the brew.
This time, it was much more pleasant, the bitterness tempered by the sweetness of the milk.
“Time,” rumbled Tsytryn, heading toward the door, and the rest fell into step behind him.
Cemre’s heart jittered about like a newborn kelpie foal, giddy with possibility but not at all stable on its legs. She lifted a hand before her; it was shaking.
“Ah, I apologize,” said Massimo from beside her, and she felt warm at the thought of how much closer to each other they’d been the day before. “Maybe the espresso is too strong for you.”
Was that what it was? She couldn’t help wondering whether—
No. She would not let her heart throw her off-course with its ridiculous emotions. She needed her mind to be in full control today. Calm, focused, logical.
So what if her family didn’t need her? She rubbed her chest as if she could wipe away the sudden pang there. It was for the best. One less distraction while she did what she was good at: cooking. And if she won, she could change their lives. They’d see how . . . necessary she was.
Massimo’s hand brushed over her lower back as they turned a corner to reach backstage, making her wings shiver. The others were ahead of them – they couldn’t have seen – but Cemre darted her eyes around anyway. Now she felt giddy for a completely different reason.
Focus.
Hyounhie appeared as they waited around for the curtain call. “Hear about the silly old chap in the practice kitchen last night? Got into a bit of a shindy with one of the Yuki-Onnas. They’re trying to defrost him under a limelight as we speak.”
“Ah well,” said Rhydian, “that’ll teach him not to get chopsy with a lady.”
Hyounhie whinnied a laugh. “Must have been off his onion.” She placed her hands on her hips. “I say, congratulations on making it to round three and all that. Jolly good show. What’s your take on the whole business?”
“It’s all quite mad, isn’t it?” said Cemre, happy for a distraction from her disobedient thoughts. “When you’re up there, everything moves so quickly, and the crowd and the music and the judges doing the time calls . . .”
“Is a circus,” grunted Tsytryn.
Hyounhie guffawed. “Well, you know how the old saying goes: ‘Life upon the wicked stage ain’t nothin’ like a girl su-ppo-ses.’” She sang the last few words, then trotted off humming.
Qhari gave Cemre a confused look. “This is a song?”
Cemre shrugged.
“Ten seconds to curtain.”
They all lined up, and shoulders back, Cemre marched onto the stage. She wouldn’t let her worries distract her today. She was going to cook her best and show these men she deserved to be here.
“Today’s challenge is all about doing a lot with a little.” Mr. Bronson removed a shiny black cloth from a table to reveal mounds of ingredients. Each one had a label in front of it with a price. “You each have a budget of 50 shiners. As you can see, each item in this pantry has a price. Whatever ingredients you choose can’t add up to more than 50 shiners. You have 90 minutes.”
“50 shiners?” mumbled a contestant behind her. “How can we possibly get everything we need with that pittance?”
A flood of confidence washed over Cemre. This she could do. She was used to cooking with a budget of far less than 50 shiners. Even 1 shiner was luxury for her. She knew how to stretch a shiner so thin you could lay three miles of road with it.
“Your time starts now!”
The cheapest ingredient on the table was cabbage. Child’s play. Cemre collected one, as well as fresh herbs and some other vegetables. She walked right past the meat and fish, which was surrounded by contestants scratching their heads and counting on their fingers.
As she let her instincts take over, she found herself humming along with the orchestra. Their usual theme was as familiar as a lullaby now, and it wasn’t hard to pick it up when they suddenly switched from major to minor or back again.
Even Massimo seemed happy during his cook today, casting her surreptitious smiles as he juggled his limited ingredients. Not being able to choose his usual variety appeared to hone his focus, and Cemre was certain having a much emptier bench didn’t hurt.
The allotted time flew by, but Cemre’s stomach desisted from performing any gymnastics, settled and calm while Cemre cooked what she’d made a dozen times before, a family favourite. It only somersaulted briefly when Massimo caught her eye and his own brown ones danced.
Towards the end of the cook, he was floundering again, chewing at his lip while touching a bowl here, then walking along his bench and touching some other utensil before being drawn to yet another.
“Massimo!” Cemre shouted. “Take your sauce off the stove, then start plating your potatoes!”
He obeyed but began tinkering with a jar of marinated artichokes halfway through laying out his potato slices.
“Massimo! The potatoes!”
“Yes, yes.” He hustled back to his plate and finished the potato layer, then wandered back to the jar again.
“Your steak, Massimo! It needs to be on the plate with your sauce.”
“Yes, Chef,” Massimo yelled back with a grin, following her instructions to the letter this time.
She chuckled and gave her dish a final drizzle of olive oil. It was ready.
And she was as refreshed and peaceful as if she’d been for a stroll in the park. The espresso jitters had worn off, leaving only a pitter patter of delight in her heart.
That organ sank a little when the judges had nothing good to say about Qhari and Tsytryn’s offerings – which looked like masterpieces to Cemre – and only the most reluctant praise for Rhydian. Only Massimo pleased them with his classic Quellebaguettian velouté sauce and beef fillet. Those chefs who’d cooked meat and traditional rich flavours similarly did well. Nobody had spent less than 48 shiners of their budget.
Cemre was the last to present her cabbage dish to the judges, which now looked far too simple, far too cheap.
“Well, Mr. Ashburn,” began Sir Beckwith-Parsons, nose lifted so high Cemre wondered how he could even see her plate, “how much of your budget did you spend?”
She didn’t want to answer. Perhaps she should just walk off the stage and get her interview over and done with so she could start thinking about round two.
“Mr. Ashburn?” prompted Mr. Bronson.
She cleared her throat far longer than necessary. “Five shiners.”
Mr. Ogleby leaned forward, leading with his ear. “Pardon?”
Cemre coughed. “Five shiners.”
Mr. Ogleby’s jaw dropped.
“Five,” repeated Mr. Bronson, eyes bigger than her serving plate. “ Five? ”
Chef Santini communicated something to his interpreter, who said, “Economical. Very good.”
“Well,” said Sir Beckwith-Parsons, eyeing her dish as though it were rotting clams, “I suppose we must taste it.”
Crunching noises ensued as they chewed thoughtfully. Then silence.
Mr. Ogleby coughed in an embarrassed sort of way. “I suppose there’s no denying your flavours are good.” After a dirty look from Sir Beckwith-Parsons, he added, “Though I can’t help but think your tendency towards simplicity rather dull.”
Sir Beckwith-Parsons unleashed a scathing glare on her. “If only you’d used the other 45 shiners, you may have been able to present us with a dish worthy of this competition.”
Chef Santini muttered something, and his interpreter’s eyes widened, but the chef flicked his fingers dismissively and the interpreter remained quiet.
Cemre bowed her head and returned to her bench. Massimo was at her side immediately. “They know nothing,” he growled. “Nothing at all.”
She attempted a wan smile in response, but all the energy she’d had during the cook had seeped into the floor along with her confidence.
She was so convinced she’d be cooking in round two that she didn’t pay much attention to the judges, but then Massimo took her elbow the minute they were off-stage and said, “You see, not so bad, huh?”
She furrowed her brow at him. “What?”
“Another day safe,” said Rhydian, bending forward with his hands on his knees to stretch his back.
“May we all be grateful for undercooked chicken,” said Qhari with a laugh.
“And too much salt.” Rhydian straightened and grinned wickedly. “Can you believe old Boyle over there thought he could get away with stealing extra ingredients?”
“Sleeve terrible hiding place,” rumbled Tsytryn.
Relief did not soften Cemre’s taut stomach. No, it was overwhelmed by frustration, anger. She might be staying another day, but nothing she did seemed to please the judges. And she couldn’t even blame it on bigotry this time. She just wasn’t skilled enough. Her ideas were too simple.
Interviews completed, Cemre’s friends congregated near the wings, waiting to watch the second round.
“I think I’ll go and practice rather,” she told them. “I’ve got a lot to learn still.” And she was running out of time to learn it. She needed to get used to cooking more complicated dishes if she wanted to make it all the way to the end.
“I want to keep an eye on the competition.” Rhydian nodded to the bottom three contestants. “Good to know what you’re up against.”
Tsytryn grunted in agreement. Qhari was already finding a spot with a good view.
Massimo brushed Cemre’s elbow. “I’ll come with you,” he said. “I too wish to practice more.”
“I don’t know why,” she said as they left the others behind and made their way towards the practice kitchen. “The judges loved your dish. You know just what to cook to make them happy.”
Massimo didn’t reply, and when she looked over at him, she saw he was chewing his lip.
She smiled sadly to herself and then tapped him on his cheek. “These lips are not for chewing.”
He laughed, eyes wide with surprise and delight. He touched his lip and sucked it into his mouth.
“No.” She nudged him. “Not for chewing.”
He grinned, and a particularly mischievous look came into his eye. “Then what are they for?”
Suddenly shy, she looked away and said nothing. Massimo took her arm and pulled her down a side passage.
“Where are we going?” she hissed, looking behind them to make sure no one followed.
He shook his head, still grinning, and led her along twists and turns until they reached a very dark dead end. Except that it wasn’t a dead end. Massimo scrabbled for something in the corner and then shoved his shoulder against the wall. It opened. In the darkness, Cemre hadn’t been able to see the door.
But now the dim glow of a gaslit night flooded in. They stepped over the threshold and into the world’s tiniest courtyard. Cemre estimated she could cross it in just four strides in each direction. It had clearly not been used in some time: moss coated the central stones, undisturbed by feet, and honeysuckle and ivy in the beds on each side had overgrown the walls so thickly that any windows into the courtyard there might have been were completely covered. She could just make out the legs of a stone bench beneath the heavy creepers.
“How did you find this place?” she asked, gazing open-mouthed at the starry sky a few storeys above – well, as starry as it could be while fighting against the many gas lamps of Wenn.
“I like to explore,” Massimo replied with a shrug. Then his face turned serious and he pulled her to stand in front of him, his hands on her arms. “You are right,” he said. “Lips are not for chewing.”
And he kissed her. Not the peck on the lips from yesterday, but a proper, soft-lipped caress. Not that Cemre had any point of comparison, but it certainly seemed like a proper kiss. Her wings fluttered frantically against the bindings, desperate to take off. She held on to Massimo’s waist for balance.
He pulled away slightly so they could breathe, and Cemre licked her lip. There was a faint hint of blood. She touched a gentle fingertip to his poor damaged lip. “Why do you do this to yourself? It must stop.”
He shrugged and leaned in for another kiss, every touch gentle and slow, as if he were savouring an exquisite dish prepared by the most prestigious chef.
After some amount of time that Cemre couldn’t measure, he pulled away, face flushed, and panted. “I think we should stop now.” He cleared his throat and took a step back. “Phew.” He wiped his brow.
She was sweaty and sticky from the competition, but she couldn’t blame feeling hot on that right now. She felt as flushed and dazed as Massimo looked.
Their silent gazing at each other became uncomfortable.
She coughed and cleared her throat. “Well, I . . . uh . . . I was thinking of learning some fancier techniques, things that would impress the judges. Where do you think I should start?”
Massimo blinked. “Pardon?”
“You know so many classic techniques: those Quellebaguettian sauces and how to make pasta and how to fillet a fish.” She reached for a glossy ivy leaf and stroked it, enjoying the smooth, waxy feel of it. “I don’t know any of those things, only the simple methods of plain home cooking. You already showed me how to make pasta, but what else should I learn?”
“Learn about what?” His gaze kept drifting down to her lips and glazing over.
“Classic cooking technique.” She tried not to giggle at his lost expression. “I want to learn more advanced skills, things that will impress the judges.”
He met her eyes and frowned. “You already cook very well.”
“Yes, but my way of cooking doesn’t impress them. It’s too rudimental.”
“Rudimental?” His chin burrowed into his neck as he shook and retracted his head in absolute disagreement. “Your flavours are not at all rudimental. How can you say this? Ah credimi, they like the taste of your food, always.”
“It’s not good enough! If I want to stay in this competition, I have to cook the way they want.” She wasn’t going to be able to win by cooking what she liked. She had to cook what the judges liked, what would impress them. She had to cook like a man.
Massimo chewed his lip, and Cemre tapped it. “Not for chewing, remember?”
He grinned and leaned in for a kiss, but she used the finger still on his lips to push him back gently.
“I must focus, Massimo. I can’t afford to lose any time I could be using to practice and learn.”
He sighed and put his hands on his hips. “Va bene. Maybe we can . . .” He looked around the courtyard for inspiration, then a finger jumped into the air. “Ah, you say the Quellebaguettian sauces. This I can teach you.”
Her wings jolted. “Yes! Thank you. I think that would help a lot.”
“So . . .” He stared at her, his mind apparently having skipped off elsewhere. Then he shook himself and took her hand. “We go to the kitchen, then.”
She threw a last glance up at the sky. “This place is beautiful. Thank you for showing it to me.”
“ You are beautiful.” He pecked her on the cheek, grinned at her dumbfounded expression, then pulled her towards the practice kitchen. “There are five sauces,” he explained on the way. “The mother sauces . . .”
For the next hour, Cemre’s ears were subjected to more Quellebaguettian words than she’d heard in all her years put together. She doubted she’d remember this new vocabulary, but Massimo’s adept demonstration of the techniques was easy to follow and file away for future use. He smiled and laughed all the way through, and she couldn’t help relishing how his gaze kept drifting down to her lips and he’d lose his train of thought, then shake himself and ask her what he’d been saying.
“Ah, I forget again,” he said when he’d done it for the fifth or sixth time. He chewed furiously on his lip. “Why I always do this?”
She pinched his cheek to make him stop. “You are too hard on yourself. We all forget things.”
“No, not like me. Me, I forget everything! I’m making the sauce and then I get distracted with something else and the sauce is burning!” He smacked his head. “Stupido!”
She caught his hands, pulling them away from his head. “You are not stupid! Your brain is just busy and full. You have so many ideas, and you want to do all of them. I wish I had as many ideas as you.”
He bit the inside of his cheek. “The ideas are no good if I cannot complete any of them.”
“Well, that’s what friends are for.” She smiled. “I can remind you when you forget. Oh, and there is this.” She reached for one of the clockwork timers that sat on each bench. “This can help you too.”
“What is it? I never use this before.”
Cemre wound the mechanism. “It is like a small alarm clock, but you can only set it for up to one hour’s time. You could set it for whenever you want to check something so that it doesn’t burn. Say you want to check the sauce in five minutes’ time. Set this for five minutes and put the timer down next to the saucepan. Then you’ll know exactly what needs to be checked when the alarm rings.”
“The timer I can use – if I remember, of course.” He frowned to himself. “But you – I cannot let you neglect your own cook to help me. This is not fair.”
“But I want to help.” How could she explain that she needed to help? That not caring for Xanthan and Taurine and Rubella made her feel lost and useless every moment she was alone with her thoughts?
“No, fragolina, this is not the way.” He took her hands. “You have to be here for you. You have to cook because you have the passion for it and it make you happy.”
She nodded, but she knew the real reason she was there: to help her family. That had to be the real reason. Simply being there for herself was selfish.
But either way, the goal was the same: to win. So she smiled at him and said, “You know, you are a lot like my little sister. She also finds it difficult to focus on one thing at a time.” She hesitated. “Well, unless it’s investigating gruesome future careers for herself. But when she has to do something she doesn’t like, I try to make it fun for her. If it’s her mathematics homework, we set a timer – an hourglass, not a proper clockwork one like this – and see how many sums she can complete in that time. Then we do something fun like race each other around the outside of the house. The next time we set the timer, we see if she can beat her own record. If it’s cleaning, we sing or make a game of it.”
Massimo’s mouth crooked. “You think I should sing while I’m cooking?”
She laughed. “Well, it can’t hurt, can it?”
He released her hands and moved a saucepan off the burner. “So, you make medicine for your stepmother, you take one of your sisters to the doctor, and you help your other sister with her homework. And who is helping you?”
“I don’t need help.” She tasted a little of the béchamel. Cook had taught her how to make it before, but she’d simply called it white sauce . “I’m happy looking after them.”
“That is all that makes you happy? Cooking does not make you happy?” He leaned his back against the bench, fingers curled around the countertop.
“It does . . .”
Massimo cocked his head, eyes crinkling. “You are not sure?”
Cemre huffed out a laugh. “No, I am sure. Cooking makes me happy. I like to feed my family. And it pleases me to cook interesting things for Taurine, things she can experience without her sense of taste.”
“Always you come back to helping your family.” He clicked his tongue. “What if one day you want to leave them?”
Leave? The thought was as foreign as the idea of her building a house next door to Squat Henry. “Why would I leave?”
His eyes dropped to the floor. “Maybe you . . . meet someone, fall in love. Maybe you want to get married, have a family of your own.”
Her wings, which had been twitching irritably, stilled, as did the rest of her body. He was putting a picture in her head that she’d never considered. Well, perhaps not never. When she was little, when she still had her father and mother, perhaps she’d thought of weddings and babies, as little girls often did. And even after that, when her father had re-married, the thought had crossed her mind that one day she might have a husband, might have children.
But then her father had . . . no longer been there and the money had run out and Xanthan and Taurine had gotten sick and all Cemre’s thoughts had been occupied with surviving from one day to the next. Her brief glimpses of celebrated chefs in the newspapers had given her momentary visions of one day cooking dishes as spectacular as theirs, and every urchin or beggar on the street made her wish for a way to redistribute food waste for their benefit.
But marriage? Love? She’d long forgotten that dream.
And now here she was beside this man who’d kissed her. And he spoke of those very things she’d stopped hoping for.
Massimo gnawed on his lip, watching her, but she had no idea what to say.
At last, he laughed in an awkward, forced sort of way and said, “Or what if I want to hire you to follow me around the kitchen and remind me when I forget something? You know, after the competition.”
She forced an awkward giggle to echo his, recognizing his attempt to break the tension. “Well, thank you very much for the offer. If I don’t win this competition, which is very likely, I shall take you up on it.”
“Ah no” – Massimo tsked at her – “still you do not believe in your skill. I will convince you. I will—”
He was unable to complete that thought because Rhydian, Tsytryn, and Qhari ambled into the kitchen.
“Lyle went home,” Rhydian informed them. Cemre had no idea which one Lyle was. “The challenge was to present a baked dessert, but he did everything on the stove except a tuille for decoration, so they decided he’d missed the brief. The other two managed very well.”
Qhari dipped a spoon into the espagnole. “Mm, your practice is successful, I see.”
Cemre remembered at the last minute to deepen her voice. “Massimo is teaching me the Quellebaguettian mother sauces.”
“I try to tell her” – he coughed – “ him that he cook very well and he don’t need me to teach him nothing.”
“I have already learned a lot from you,” she countered. “And you.” She gestured to the other three cooks. “I would like to learn more, in fact. We can never know everything, can we now?”
“Can’t argue with that,” said Rhydian. “I’d love for you to teach me how to come up with the sort of flavour combinations you do – saffron custard with fish. Inspired.”
Inspired. Would that be enough to keep Mel alive? “But I want to learn the same from you!” Cemre replied with a nervous laugh.
“Bah!” said Massimo. “We all have our own style. All of you, your flavours are—” He kissed his fingers. “And we all have the different skills.”
“Aye, nothing wrong with doing what we’re good at,” agreed Rhydian.
Cemre shook her head sadly. “But the judges don’t feel that way. They want fancy, classic, elaborate.” She needed to use more expensive, luxurious ingredients, put together some really decadent combinations.
“Don’t put your fiddle in the roof just yet,” said Rhydian, patting her shoulder. “We can do fancy.”
Tsytryn’s throat reverberated as though a small earthquake was taking place inside. “Is how they look,” he said.
Everyone looked at the rocky man. He didn’t seem inclined to explain.
“What you mean, butt?” asked Rhydian.
Tsytryn lifted one large hand and waved it side to side with the speed of an exhausted sloth. “Judges care about how things look. They taste, but they want to look good.”
Qhari scratched his temple. “You mean they want the dish to look good?”
Two moss-laden eyebrows narrowed into a V. “Yes, but also . . . to look good.”
His befuddled audience blinked at him, then Qhari popped a finger into the air. “Ah! I think I comprehend, my friend. The judges want to look good in front of the audience. They want to impress everyone. If they say that an elaborate, expensive dish is good, the audience will think they are . . . uh . . . expensive.”
“Rich,” supplied Rhydian. “They want to appear rich, posh.”
“They are snobs, yes?” said Massimo.
Everyone laughed.
But what Massimo had said was in fact sad, thought Cemre. She sighed. “Appearances mean more to them than flavour.” Her brow wrinkled. “But Tsytryn, your dishes are always beautiful. Why do they criticize you so much?”
Tsytryn simply floated his upturned palm from his head downwards.
“Ah,” said Qhari sadly. “They do not want to appear to appreciate a troll. There are no famous troll chefs. And me, I come from too poor a country.”
“And I’m too not human or elf,” added Rhydian dejectedly. “So that’s it, then? The competition is rigged?”
Cemre’s wings drooped. After all she’d done to get into this competition, all the energy she’d expended that could have been spent on her family . . . A wave of exhaustion washed over her.
She saw herself walking into that audition, facing those blasted bigots and being rejected by them, and wished the whole thing had never happened.
Her upper lip itched, and her wings bristled in response. Damn it all, she hadn’t dressed up as a blasted man and gotten herself a rash from the blasted moustache so she could once again hit a judge-shaped wall of bigotry.
“No,” she vowed. “We will not let them get away with this. We can play their game and win.”
“How?” asked Massimo.
“Well, as Qhari said, the judges want to look good to the audience. Because if they can’t impress the audience, they don’t have a show. No show, no money.” She rapped out a rhythm with her fingers on the benchtop. “So what can we do to really give them a show?”
A thoughtful silence descended on the group.
Rhydian put his hand up. “I can clog dance.”
Qhari burst into laughter, but Cemre said, “No, that might do the trick. If you dance while you’re cooking, that could really grab the audience.”
Rhydian frowned. “I’d have to find a pair of clogs somewhere, though. And make sure I get a bench at the front of the stage.”
“I can juggle,” offered Massimo. “Wait, I show you.” He fetched three oranges from the pantry and, with his bottom lip wedged between his teeth, cycled them through his hands in smooth succession.
Everyone applauded, even Tsytryn, and Massimo caught all the oranges and then bowed with arms flung wide.
“My only concern,” said Cemre, “is that you can’t cook and do that at the same time. We do still have to have something to present to the judges.” She didn’t want to give them any reason to disqualify them.
“I can play the pinkuyllu,” said Qhari, “and I could cook a little with the other hand at the same time.”
“What’s a pinkuyllu?” asked Cemre.
“It’s a pipe made from” – the little man’s fingers swung up and down like he was trying to draw the item he meant in the air – “the tall things that grow by the water?”
“Reeds?” supplied Rhydian.
“Aha, you would know, my friend.” He slapped the asrai on the back. “Yes, with holes in. You play with one hand.”
“Only one?” repeated Cemre, impressed. “Here they play flutes with two hands.”
Qhari shrugged. “This is only one. The other is for the drum. But I don’t need the drum to make music. Oh!” His face fell. “I didn’t bring it with me.”
“And even if we could leave the theatre, I don’t think we’d find one of those in Wenn,” said Cemre glumly. She glanced over at stoic Tsytryn, and the other three followed her gaze. “Do you . . . have any talents? Besides cooking, of course.”
The stoic troll simply gazed back, deadpan.
“Do you know any jokes?” ventured Qhari.
Tsytryn considered this. “There is joke about troll that hit other troll with rock.” His mouth curved very slightly.
They waited for the punchline.
“Yes? And then?” asked Massimo.
“Is joke,” replied Tsytryn, brows folding downward.
“That’s all?” Cemre tried not to sound too disappointed. “That’s the whole joke?”
Tsytryn shrugged. “Is funny to troll.”
Rhydian tapped his chin. “What about tricks? Can you do any?”
Tsytryn thought longer this time. Finally, he said, “I pick up very heavy things.”
Rhydian chuckled. “Anything else?”
“I pick up very hot things.”
“I’m not being funny, but I don’t wager that’ll entertain the audience, butt.”
“Oh dear.” Cemre crossed her arms and rested her chin in her hand. She caught Massimo gnawing on his lip, so she nudged him and mouthed not for chewing , which earned her a crooked smile she had to look away from in order to think clearly. “There must be something we can do. We just have to think about the shows we’ve done already. When does the audience make the most noise? What makes them cheer and applaud and really get riled up? What has done that before? It doesn’t seem to be when the judges are impressed by a dish.”
“Qhari,” said Tsytryn.
“Yes?” replied the Ch’uyachokolatian.
“No.” Tsytryn levelled a thick finger at him. “You. You make audience excited.”
Qhari pointed at himself disbelievingly. “Me? What did I do?”
“Sing,” said Tsytryn. “When we cut fish.”
“Sing? I did not sing— Oh!” Qhari clutched his belly as a chortle escaped. “That was not singing!”
“The audience ate it up, though,” said Rhydian, excitement colouring his pale features. “They were even clapping along with you.”
“This is true,” said Massimo. “Nothing else make them laugh and cheer like this.”
“And it’s something we can do while we carry on cooking!” Cemre had to work hard to keep her voice from pitching up with elation. And then another obstacle occurred to her. “Can we all sing, though? And would we sing together or one at a time?”
“Together, of course,” said Massimo resolutely. “We do this together. We are stronger together.”
“What will we sing?” asked Qhari.
Rhydian raised his hand again, looking uncharacteristically shy. “I, uh . . . well, I grew up singing in a choir, you see . . .”
Cemre clapped her hands together. “Oh Rhydian, that’s wonderful! You can lead us.”
He ruffled his hair again. “Well, I’ll give it a dwt try.”
“You will choose a song that is happy, yes?” said Massimo, bouncing on his toes. “Something with the fast rhythm, so the audience will clap with us.”
“I have a song in mind, one most of the audience will know. Then they’ll sing along, like.”
“So that’s what we’ll do, then.” Cemre beamed at her friends, her wings wanting to burst from their bindings and lift her into the air. “We’ll sing and get the audience clapping and singing along, and the judges won’t dare eliminate us.”
The floor rumbled beneath her feet, and she realized that Tsytryn was clearing his throat.
“I don’t sing,” he said.
“No need,” said Rhydian, a mischievous smile on his face. “You’ll be our percussion.”
Tsytryn thought for a long minute, then nodded his acceptance.
“Shall we practice then?” Cemre rubbed her hands together, energized by the certainty of a plan, of a way to get all of them through the next few rounds. The judges couldn’t dismiss the contestants keeping the audience coming back with their lovely money.
Best of all, it would keep her from thinking of home, from feeling useless and sad.
Wouldn't it?